Jitsu v.s Depression (or A Really Long Story) - Part 1

Hey...

This week I have been...

...Knee'd in the face...

     ...dropped on my back...

...put into arm-locks...

      ....thrown around...

But I feel fine about it...

Why?

Because it's Jitsu!

I started at Jiu-Jitsu when I was in the final years of High School. I was 17 at the time, and some friends had just started, or planned to start there. These were friends who were far geekier than me, and seemingly about as fit (read: un-fit). They played Dungeons and Dragons and were not prone to sudden bouts of concentrated exercise as far as I knew. I felt if they wanted to do it, then I probably could and it would be fun hanging out with them outside of school anyway. It sounded cool anyway (what martial art doesn't to a teenager?) and given that I was (and still am) of a pretty small build, it seemed like something that I might find useful as well.

If I remember right, there were about 5 or 6 of us starting at the same time. If the guys hadn't started with me, I probably wouldn't have had the nerve to go down there (plus I would never have heard of it). I was pretty painfully shy of new things and people in those days.

It was strange, at first. They wanted us to roll around a lot and practice falling over a certain way. The first moves we learnt seemed awkward and peculiar and there was a strong sense that we looked silly doing it. It was odd getting that up-and-close with new people and physically moving them around. It was kind of like a weird dance class where people occasionally ended up on the floor.
By the end of the first session though, we were all pumped up and excited for next time. We had learnt at least one, if not two basic throws and an arm/wrist lock as well as the rolling and falling. We were sure we could master the art in no time.
We would be ninjas. Mighty black-belt ninjas! And we would roll around sorting out crime and living out a crazy teenage-fantasy-life.
(Later I learnt that jitsu was actually practised by samurai, not ninjas, but you know what we meant).

More sessions followed...about twice a week, when we could make it (which was most of the time, to be fair; I didn't do much else after school).

I could never remember the more technical arm and wrist locks, I would get confused and just stand there, frozen, or keep doing the one I could remember no matter which they were asking me to demonstrate.
The throws I really enjoyed though, both performing them on others and being thrown myself. There was something quite fun about flying through the air for a few seconds before hitting the floor and bouncing straight back up to go again (the falling techniques or 'break-falling', take the impact out of hitting the floor mats, so you don't get hurt).
It was still hard for me, for a long while, to try and punch people so they could perform the throw on me. I didn't want to actually hurt anyone, so I would punch weakly or aim away from their face. Eventually though, you learn that a good attack is more realistic, and that the person defending ('tori') can get a much better technique out of it if the attacker ('uki') gives it their all, as there's more momentum.

Eventually we were introduced to something called 'ground-fighting' as well. This is when the fight has wound up on the ground, and you're trying to pin each other down with certain moves. At later levels (higher 'grades', or belts), you are allowed to do things like arm-locks and choke-holds as well, but they try not to let novices break each other too early on...
The ground-fighting was immensely fun. The kind of wrestling shenanigans I would sometimes get up to with friends when we were drinking or just being rowdy. Only they were training me to be good at it.

My 18th birthday rolled around at the same time as a national event, in Birmingham, which meant I was able to go. I was still only a white belt (beginner) but I was excited to go and so were the guys. By then we were pretty well into the group at jitsu, who were all really genuine, fun-loving and open people. The senseis (teachers - brown and black belts) were friendly too; they didn't distance themselves from us at all (apart from it being perfectly obvious they could have folded us up like 'human origami' - a term my current sensei has actually used - if they'd wanted to).

It was a huge event, with people coming from all over the U.K to train and compete. Even though the numbers there would have normally over-whelmed me, I felt confident and secure in my new found group and hobby. I felt powerful even though I was surrounded by people better at it than me.

 The competition I was able to enter, as a novice, was ground-fighting. I would fight against other girls, of the same belt and weight category as me, starting sat back to back then wheeling round and trying to pin them down or make them give up and tap out before they can do it to me.
One of my friends guessed my weight for me when I was being entered...I ended up in the catagory above the one I should have been in. I would be fighting girls heavier than me.
Luckily, none of them were that heavy and I only had to fight 3 people in the end.

The first fight I had, I used a sneaky technique I had been shown by one of my senseis...as you turn round to face them, bring your elbow up in front of you. You have a 50/50 chance they'll turn the same way as you and bang into it...
The girl did.
I didn't notice until the end of the fight, when she smiled at me, that her mouth was full of blood where I'd banged it with my fairly bony elbow.
The next fight was against her mate.
She was less willing to let it go than the smiley girl.
It was more of a struggle than the first fight, but I beat her too.

That night, out drinking, I felt invincible. It was my birthday and I had beaten two people in combat. The finals were the next day, when I would compete for gold. Even if I lost, I would have a silver medal, though I was confident of my abilities.
We got very drunk.
One of my mates was sick after falling asleep on the sofas in the club.
I remember eating The Best Burrito from some dodgy van parked on the street, which seemed to be staffed entirely by attractive yet chavy women.
I drank lots of cocktails, and eventually went to sleep at the hotel...probably sometime in the early morning.

Sadly for me, I had not yet gotten good at drinking like that and functioning the next day.
I woke up incredibly hungover.
I'm fairly sure I missed or didn't feel like eating much breakfast.
What's more...I had PMS. Not a good combo for a fighting champion.

I had to train for what was probably about 3 or 4 hours (though it felt like forever) before the actual competition. The rules are generally that if you don't turn up to the training, you shouldn't compete.
There were only about half as many people on the mats that day. Anyone not competing, who had been out drinking, had obviously decided to sleep it off a bit before coming in.
Once we started training, I didn't think I could leave the mat. Not only because of the etiquette, I literally didn't know which way I would have to run to get off. The room was spinning so much I couldn't tell. I decided I would just have to hang on as best as I could, being thrown and throwing 'til I was pretty much ready to fall down and die. If I actually threw up, I was sure someone would help me off at least.
(Note: Apparently the accepted thing to do if you can not get off the mat in time, is actually to throw up inside your gi top, to prevent it getting on the mats/stopping training. I am thankful this has never actually had to happen).

Then the fight.
I tried.
Honest.
A bit, anyway.

But she got me into a hold and I couldn't muster the energy or vigour to escape it. I remember saying quietly "you got me" and just going limp and waiting for the count.
Silver is still a good medal.
My group still rallied round me and were impressed enough I felt I hadn't really lost out on much.

When I got out and went and got changed, I realised I had a small, but noticeable enough, bright red stain on my white gi trousers. Obviously, despite their adverts to the contrary, sanitary towels do not actually stand up to the test of strenuous exercise. I was fucking mortified. Everyone had been watching me fight, and had probably noticed it. No one had mentioned though, so I couldn't really be sure. Perhaps the long gi top had been enough to cover it. I said nothing and just felt incredibly embarrassed as well as worn out and queasy.
I was still pleased with my medal though, and sure that if I hadn't been dying of a milestone-birthday hangover, I would have won...